


Tazhiri

by plantyourtreeswithme



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bilbo Remains In Erebor, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Genderfluid Character, Genderfluid Nori, Iglishmêk, M/M, Neo-Khuzdul, Other, POV Bilbo Baggins, PTSD Bilbo, Rebuilding Erebor, Way too much research geez, implied Balin/Dori, in which literally everyone is gay, post-BotFA, so much!!!!!!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-06-02
Packaged: 2018-06-07 11:22:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,293
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6801712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plantyourtreeswithme/pseuds/plantyourtreeswithme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bilbo Baggins doesn't know how to go on, but he'll manage.</p><p>Somehow.</p><p>Healing others and helping the ambitious new king deal with the supposed ignorance of other races seems to help.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Ahfân

**Author's Note:**

> My thanks to the Dwarrow Scholar for helping me with my absolute slaughter of Neo-Khuzdul! Their resources are available on [Wordpress](https://dwarrowscholar.wordpress.com/khuzdul/documents-dictionaries/) or [Tumblr](http://thedwarrowscholar.tumblr.com).
> 
> I've used an html feature that translates Khuzdul, Sindarin, and Quenya if you scroll your mouse over it. It's really cool and available [here](http://acefandomite.tumblr.com/post/125435570772/hi-first-of-all-i-want-to-say-that-your-writing) if you want to use it. Translations are also available at the end of each chapter if you're on mobile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some dialogue was taken from the movie "The Hobbit: The Battle of the Five Armies."

Bilbo Baggins knelt on Ravenhill, clutching a brass button in his small hand and struggling not to cry.

Thorin had pulled a necklace from his throat with the last of his strength, pressing it into Bilbo's trembling hand and covering his small fingers with his dwarven ones. He had gasped out his last words - "If more people valued home above gold... this world would be a merrier place..." - and left Bilbo.

He had  _left him_.

Bilbo had been so distraught with grief that he could barely speak, could barely control himself as he cried, "No!" over and over again.

"Thorin! Oh, don't you  _dare_ ," he had gasped, his voice cracking and his throat closing up. "Thorin. Thorin, wake up. The eagles... the eagles...

"The eagles are here. Thorin - the eag-"

It was then that he realized that the light was gone from Thorin's eyes. His own were clouded with tears, and he was gasping for air, his chest jerking with sobs as he attempted to conceal them. He wanted desperately to bottle up his emotions, to hide his face from the rest of the Company, but he couldn't stop.

He felt ill.

Several hours later - or days, or maybe even weeks; he couldn't tell - his tears ceased, and he found that there was a wizard sitting next to him. He could not remember if an attempt at conversation had been made, but he did not care to initiate it himself.

They sat there for a while, surveying the carnage below them. Bilbo's eyes were blank, tears still suffused across them. He and Gandalf watched as the remaining members of the Company paid homage to their fallen king, teardrops leaking into their beards and wetting their braids.

Bilbo buried his face in his hands, dropping the locket onto the snow without a sound. His eyes welled once more, and he sobbed unabashedly, rocking back and forth as he tasted the bitter salt of his own sorrow.

He never once felt that he was intruding upon the grief of the Company, for it was as much his as it was theirs.

 

* * *

 

It took five dwarves to convince him to attend the funeral.

Bilbo would have been completely willing to go and pay his respects to Fíli and Kíli, had it not been for the third body that would be on display.

~~His love of learning about cultures did not extend to observing their funeral rites.~~

The  _khazâd_ wore their brightest, most vibrant clothes, and his eyes smarted every time he looked around, the blur of radiant hues too much for him to behold. Those in attendance of Shire funerals traditionally wore black, the "most mournful color." Bilbo personally believed that white was more appropriate for grieving - it was supposed to represent peace and tranquility, after all.

He had nothing to wear except the blue coat Bard had given him a few weeks ago (possibly more; it felt like it'd been years since the bowman had snuck them into his house), so he wore that. His old red blazer had been thoroughly abused over the course of their journey, and he wouldn't dare wear something so casual to a  _funeral_.

Bilbo decided to visit the boys - his Fee and Kee - first, pressing a kiss to each of their brows, but not yet crying. The pain of their absence was magnified tenfold when he realized how much he would miss them, how large the hole they had left in his life was.

He could not help but weep when he stood at the grave of his _khi_ \- that was what Thorin had called him, and despite the language barrier, he had guessed long ago what it meant. He had heard Kíli say it affectionately to the elf maiden Tauriel, along with other Khuzdul words that, despite their harsh, guttural pronunciation, conveyed emotion that had no bounds.

They had tucked Orcrist under Thorin's folded arms and the Arkenstone in his limp hands, to be buried with him underneath the Mountain once more.

That suffocating thought, of Thorin's body decaying and rotting under thousands upon thousands of tons of stone, set Bilbo's body alight, and his respiration was now raspy and reckless. Shallow breaths of air entered his mouth and nose, but did not quite reach his lungs. 

Ori wrapped an arm around his shoulders and led him to a wide, quiet hallway outside, sitting across from Bilbo on the ground and squeezing his hand.

He never imagined that it would come to this - an overwhelming sense of nausea at the mere thought of his fierce love of a dwarf king, and far too much knowledge of a secret language that he shouldn't have ever been exposed to, really.

Tears streamed down his cheeks and left streaks on his grimy face. He couldn't remember the last time he had bathed, nor did he care.

 

* * *

 

Helping to alleviate the pain of others, he discovered, distracted him from his own miserable, agonizing existence.

He assisted Óin with the tending of the wounded and the dead, his acquired knowledge of herbs coming in handy multiple times over the course of another month. Belladonna, his mother, had educated him extensively in herbology, even more than most faunts (which was saying something). She had always had a penchant for taking care of others, and several concerned hobbits approached her with their sick children winters long past, begging her to heal them.

The members of the Company looked upon him with sorrowful eyes when he passed, his footsteps silent and nearly nonexistent. He could not bear the pity written across their countenances.

Óin marked the dead with a swipe of ceremonial paint across their brows, dipping his wide, calloused thumb into a wooden bowl containing a sanguine mixture of crushed berries and then pressing it to their lower forehead. Bilbo learned to follow suit, miming the tricks the healer used to determine whether the patient was exuding breath or not (one of Óin's more common techniques was holding a knife underneath their nose and seeing if the metal steamed from their exhalations).

The dead were innumerable, and it caused Bilbo physical pain to survey the rows of dirt mounds that lined the area between Dale and Erebor. Bilbo would have preferred attending a traditional earthen funeral to a dwarven one - something about their tombs of stone was completely unsettling to him.

He fancied that Thorin would have wanted a Shire funeral, too.

"A visitor fer yeh," Óin muttered to Bilbo one day as he passed down the row of patients lying on cots within the largest tent.

Bilbo nodded and stepped outside to find a tall, red-headed figure awaiting him.

He had been expecting this talk for a while now.

"How long do yeh plan on stayin', master burglar?"

Bilbo stopped walking along the salvaged deck of Laketown with Dáin son of Náin, the rightful heir to the Mountain's throne. The wild, ginger-haired dwarrow kept pacing along for a few moments, then realized the absence of his hobbit companion and turned back to face him.

"Yeh're welcome t' stay in the Mountain as long as yeh wish for yer service," Dáin said, not unkindly, "'s'long as there's still somethin' t' do. I don't believe yeh'd want t' loiter around, would yeh? Bit of a busybody, aren't'cha?"

Bilbo hesitated for a few more moments. He had not yet even considered what he would do next; he had been much too busy assisting Óin over the course of two months.

"I will stay a while longer," he told the dwarf in a small voice. "Until the coronation ceremony, at least."

Dáin nodded and pointed at Bilbo's head. For a moment, he thought that the dwarf lord was noting the still-evident injury on his right temple, but then he said, " _Akmathankhâsh mabubnulzanât._ Where did yeh get them?"

"E-er, Nori," Bilbo stuttered, smoothing down the intricate braids the thieving dwarf had woven into his shock of brown hair. "They... they said they were for loss. I, um - uh, I thought that...  _he_ would like them."

Nori had explained what they meant while they twisted the hobbit's strands of hair into two beautifully ornate braids on both sides of his head. "They pull yer hair out o' yer face," the sneaking thief (who could be so incredibly _kind_ sometimes) said, "so that yer grief is on display fer all to see. It's sumfink we dworfs" - at that, Bilbo had cringed at Nori's awful pronunciation - "'afta be proud o', I s'pose. We tradition'ly braid 'em in a few fortnights afta' the deafs, ya see, and then they stay in fer 'alf a year or so - until yeh've stopped grievin', at least."

 _I shall never stop mourning the death of one of such relevance,_ he had thought, but said nothing of it.

Then Nori had another coughing fit, and Bilbo got up - not even daring to touch his hair - from where he had been sitting in front of them on the bed and called for Óin. Nori had been stabbed in the back during the battle, right between their shoulder blades, and it had made breathing rather difficult for them. Dwalin had been frantic when he found out, and spent nearly every waking moment from then on with his intended.

It had taken a fair amount of convincing indeed for the battle-worn soldier to leave Nori's quarters, and even then, Dwalin had frowned suspiciously at the mere mention of Nori giving Bilbo lamentation braids. Even attempting to touch another's hair was considered the most intimate of acts in dwarven culture, after all.

~~Once upon a time, Bilbo had dreamt that Thorin would braid _his_ hair, but he ~~ ~~was long past such fantasies.~~

~~Now, he only wished with an aching heart that Thorin would come _back_...~~

Bilbo was honestly in awe that his hair could even be braided at all, but he supposed that after several months of not trimming it, it had grown much longer than he had expected.

"He would'a loved 'em," Dáin said sadly, pulling Bilbo back to the present. "I can guarantee it, laddie."

Bilbo nodded slightly and left the presence of the rightful king, his throat closing up.

That night, he tried to undo the braids, but couldn't bring himself to.

 

* * *

 

Gandalf approached him a week later to ask him a variant of Dáin's question, prefaced by, "What's that, master burglar?"

Bilbo looked down at his closed fist and opened it to show Gandalf what was resting on his palm. The gray-clad wizard squinted a little and leaned over, his silver beard swaying slightly as he did.

"A button?" he observed. "Curious indeed. Wherever did you get it from, my dear fellow?"

"He, um..." Bilbo swallowed a little and let the cord the button hung from dangle from his hand. "Th-Tho..."

He could not - would not - say the name.

" _He_ wore it," he forced himself to say, the words flying out of his mouth. "And he - er - he gave it to me when... well, you know."

 _You are_ not _going to cry, fool of a hobbit,_ the Baggins side of him said -  _not in front of a wizard, no less. You are a Baggins of Bag End, not a Took - emotions are to be expressed only when regarding your family and/or beloved, and never at any other time. Petty things, really, sentiments and the like; make a right mess of things, don't they?_

Another quieter part of him told him that feelings were what had led him to not only encounter his One, but to fall in love with his One in the first place.

"Yes, I know, indeed," Gandalf said, drawing Bilbo's thoughts back to him. "You don't suppose you'll be staying in Erebor for a while, will you, Bilbo?"

"I think I will," he said softly. "Dáin will be king soon, and he has already offered me a position in his court - as an  _uryat_ , I think he called it."

"Hmm," the wizard hummed. "To think that you will soon be the advisor of the king under the Mountain. I never imagined I'd see the day a hobbit was residing in a dwarven court."

Bilbo almost smiled.

"Not yet, anyway," he corrected him, and Gandalf smiled warmly in response.

"Well, I shall be off in about a week to make my rounds," Gandalf said after a moment of peace. "You are more than welcome to accompany me, if you'd like. We could visit the Lady Galadriel in Lothlórien, or rove the aisles of bookshelves in the great library of Minas Tirith - they have quite a collection, you know."

"I would rather stay here and see Erebor's library restored, actually," Bilbo told his friend. "I've heard Balin speak wonders of it. Ori gets so excited at the mere mention of it, it's rather amusing to watch. And I've a love of other languages myself, Gandalf, I'm sure you know that. I'd so enjoy poring over great volumes written in Khuzdul and trying to make sense of them. And there's got to be a few Westron books there for me to read, too, don't you think? What a grand adventure it shall be."

"I think I can understand that," Gandalf mused. "I will be sure to come and visit you in a few months - just checking in, I assure you, no meddling of any sort."

Surprisingly, that was enough to bring a smile to his lips (his first smile in months, although he couldn't quite remember, honestly). "And that was  _surely_ your intent the last you came by?" he retorted, then stopped.

He had been unaware that his wit had survived the battle.

Gandalf laughed merrily. "You are as unpredictable as ever, Bilbo Baggins," he said, "and that is altogether a very good thing. I will miss you terribly."

 _"Don't,"_ Bilbo said reproachfully. "I hate goodbyes."

"This is hardly a goodbye, my dear fellow," the wizard said, his eyes twinkling. "It is merely the turn of a page, the final sentence of a long and wearying chapter."

An idea for a book suddenly emerged in Bilbo's head, but he ignored it for the time being, pushing it back into the recesses of his mind and standing up to give the wizard a hug.

 

* * *

 

Bilbo couldn't stand his foul, faded blue raiment any longer, so he finally relented and went to ask Dori for a change of clothes. The eldest of the Brothers Ri, son of the rather infamous, fiery courtesan Rikka, had been weaving and embroidering since he was twenty (at least, that was what he had told Bilbo). Several members of the Company had "enlisted" Dori's help in repairing fraying shirts during their journey, or stitching up torn pants and the like. The overprotective, mother hen-esque dwarrow was always happy to oblige, threading string through the eye of a needle on the  _first try_ and working it through thick, coarse fabric with incredible ease.

"Used to be a tailor in Ered Luin," Dori said as he wrapped a thin, silver measuring tape around Bilbo's waist. "It helped so much with taking care of Ori and Nori, you know. Embroidery takes much more time than simple weaving and sewing."

"You don't need to make me an entire outfit, Dori," Bilbo said; "just a nice tunic and some britches would be fine."

Dori bunched up the flimsy tape and tossed it onto his cot (they were currently standing in the tent that the Brothers Ri were inhabiting), writing a few measurements down on a piece of parchment with a tattered feather pen. "I don't think I have anything that would fit you, Master Bilbo. You're rather small, and you’ve lost what little weight you had to begin with over the course of our journey."

"I'm aware," Bilbo muttered under his breath, watching as the silver-headed dwarf paced around the makeshift quarters, looking for something.

The canvas flap of the tent was folded open, and Balin stuck his luminous, white-haired head inside. "Hello, Bilbo," he said, his eyes crinkling as he smiled. "Lord Dáin asked me to come find you, do you have time to speak with him?"

"Oh, not  _now_ , Balin," Dori griped, brandishing a case of pins at the elder dwarf. "I was just about to ask our dear burglar what colors he would prefer for the coronation ceremony."

"The king-to-be actually wants to discuss the ceremony with Master Baggins. Perhaps you could finish up later, darlin'?"

"Don't coddle me with your sweet words, you old codger. My beard grows longer by the minute because of you. Stress isn't good for it - makes it whiter."

 _"Fanâd duzdnu targ usganul mi mê,"_ Balin said cheerfully to his long-time friend, with the same pleasurable tone of voice. "You'll still be here after the conference with Dáin. Don't worry, love."

Bilbo stepped down from the stack of books Dori had stood him on and grinned at Balin as they exited the tent.

"I'm not your  _love_.  _Nimthurul me ra rukhs, zânami rukhs!_ " Dori shouted after them, and Balin smiled fondly.

"Your relationship with Dori is going well, then?" Bilbo teased as they walked down the dirt path towards the pavilion Dáin's  _khazâd_ had set up at the edge of the encampment.

"As well as always, laddie," Balin said.

"And you're sure he's not your beau?"

Balin shot him a rather sharp look. "Sure as Thorin was yours, Master Bilbo."

That shut him up.

They slogged through the mud that still remained from the morning - rain had come down in a torrential downpour for hours on end, making a wet mess of things - and Bilbo rather regretted his culture's preference for barefootedness. Confining as they looked, he would have liked a snug pair of dwarven boots to wear, at least through the sludge.

Dáin, Bard, and Thranduil were standing in an elevated, open tent that resided at the edge of Dale. The marquee had been set up over a stage-like wooden platform that Dáin's workers had constructed within a matter of days, solely for the purpose of holding meetings and planning sessions. Bard was leaning casually against one of the iron poles keeping the canvas roof suspended above them, wearing a simple silver circlet that dipped down towards his brow in the middle. The flaxen-haired elven king, Thranduil, kept sneaking covert glances at the leader of Dale, his silvery eyes studying the man with barely hidden desire.

The way the elf looked at Bard painfully reminded Bilbo of  _him_.

Balin placed a hand on his back, smiling fondly and gesturing towards the pavilion. Bilbo stepped onto the dais with the three kings, who were still discussing how they would pull everything together to form a grandiose coronation ceremony and a feast afterwards.

"Ah, Bilbo," Dáin said, looking relieved that he wasn't on his own with his fellow monarchs anymore. "We've a few things t' address that 'appen to concern yeh."

"Of course," Bilbo said, bowing to Bard and Thranduil graciously with his hands clasped behind his back. "Your majesties."

"Rise, Master Baggins," Bard said in a rather diffident voice. "None bow to me."

Bilbo raised his head and met the man's gray eyes. He was smiling.

Thranduil stole another glance, and Bilbo attempted to contain his laughter.

Dáin rubbed his forehead tensely and looked like he was struggling not to roll his eyes. "The remainin' occupants of Erebor reside in the Blue Mountains at this very moment," he started, "and news of the reclaimin' of our homeland has not yet reached them."

"Mostly because we haven't sent 'em any messages yet," Balin said pointedly, and Dáin sent him a look of vexation.

"Relayin' the news may be... a tad problematic," the dwarf lord said, and in that moment, Bilbo saw so much of his regal, dark-haired cousin in him. "The Lady Dís is the only dwarrow in Ered Luin that knows o' the deaths of her sons and brother. She's one of th' only direct descendants of the line of Durin now.

"Our people need to join us," he remarked, "and we've been debatin' whether or not t' send an envoy to bring 'em back here. If you're willin', Bilbo, we think yeh'd be the best to do it."

Bilbo stood in shock, glancing at Balin with an expression of incredulity. The elderly dwarf frowned and crossed his arms, but exhibited no signs of surprise.

"A-alone?" he stuttered.

"Nay, lad. We’ve, er… we may ‘ave already made the arrangements fer Gandalf t’ go with yeh, should yeh agree."

Bilbo fumed.

"Bebother and confusticate you wretched dwarves!" he said, his face completely red. "Are none of you familiar with the concept of  _acquiescence_? Why, I ended up  _engaged_ to one of you because of your stubborn refusal to ask others for their opinion! Mahal _wept_ , you're all as immovable as the very rock you sprung from! I ought to march back to the Shire right this instant - that'd really show you, wouldn't it - and I wouldn't _dare_ to keep going to Ered Luin, and serve you right! When I heard tell from the elves that Aulë had fashioned you from stone itself, I chose not to believe it - but I renounce that decision. You are the most  _obstinate_ , pigheaded race that I have ever  _met_!"

He took a deep breath, struggling not to scream, and his eyes fell on Thranduil, who looked exceedingly amused.

"I don't want to leave," Bilbo said, breathing slowly and methodically. "I am afraid that if I do, I won't have the courage to come back again."

"What about yer home?" Balin asked. "What about Bag End? And yer mother's doilies, and yer glory box, and yer dishes?"

"Erebor will be my home," was his firm response, his chest swelling. "Once it's been  _quite_ tidied up, of course."

He turned to Bard and Thranduil and said, "Your majesties, if I may: any help you are able and willing to offer would be much appreciated indeed. I myself can make no promises, but I am sure" - he raised his eyebrows at Dáin skeptically - "that your claim to the treasure within the Mountain would be fulfilled henceforth?"

Dáin nodded. "Aye, the sooner we make use of the surplus, the better. We have no need fer all of it, nay, and I'd be more than happy to repay our allies for all they've done fer us."

Thranduil pondered the offer for a moment, perplexed, with his head tilted slightly. "There are jewels of starlight within your hallowed halls that I would see returned to me. Gold is of no concern to my people, much less _cursed_ gold - just the gemstones. I will see to it that you receive the resources you require. Medicinal herbs and the like, I suppose."

"We will of course help," Bard added, "in return for your help rebuilding Dale. Further arrangements concerning the dwarven presence in our trade system will be decided afterwards. And once we have an actual trade system established."

The two kings took their leave after discussing a few more political details with Dáin that would be sure to come to Bilbo's attention soon - he  _was_  to be an advisor, after all.

"Don't send an envoy to Ered Luin," he said to the tired dwarrow as they watched the retreating backs of Bard and Thranduil, "send a raven instead. They'll have no idea who I am, and they won't know whether to trust me or not. Besides, if I leave, absolutely  _nothing_ will get done around here, and you know that."

Dáin smiled wearily and adjusted his brown tunic absentmindedly. "All right. I trust yer judgement, Master Baggins. I hope yeh know that."

"Of course I do."

"Which reminds me," the dwarf lord said, "will yeh be speakin' at the coronation ceremony? Besides the oaths, I mean. Thought it'd be nice for yeh to, if yeh wanted."

Bilbo hesitated, then shook his head. "No," he said simply, and Dáin nodded, needing no further explanation.

"I know it'd prob'ly be painful for yeh, but I thought it worth askin'," he said. "Be on yer way, Bilbo; it's gettin' late. There's a coronation tomorrow mornin', and I'd hate for yeh to miss it by sleepin' in too late."

"I'm an early riser, your highness, you should know that by now," Bilbo said, trying and failing to fake a smile, and he left with Balin.

He didn't sleep very well, despite turning in earlier than normal as Dáin had suggested.

 

* * *

 

"Mmm, no thanks, Bofur, you're quite, er - quite drunk..."

Bofur's cheeks were rosy, his eyes bloodshot and glassy as he threw himself onto the bench Bilbo was sitting on. He slammed his tankard down on the table and pushed his lopsided hat out of his face to get a better view of Bilbo.

"C'mon, Bil," he said, "yeh really don' want a drink?" The tipsy dwarf pushed the mug down the table with his index finger. Bilbo could smell the foul odor of ale on his breath, even from a few inches away.

"No," Bilbo said, wrinkling his nose. "Ale is rather repulsive, don't you think?"

"Alas, I cannae agree, master burglar!" Bofur exclaimed, slinging his arm around Bilbo's shoulder drunkenly. "It quaffs yer thirst like nothin' else I've ever encountered."

"I could name a few other things that do a better job," Bilbo muttered under his breath. "Look, I'm going to head back to my quarters, if that's all right with you -"

"Noooo, stay!" The brawny dwarf threw both of his arms around the hobbit and engulfed him in a suffocating hug.

"I've got a lot of things to do tomorrow, Bofur," he protested, patting him on the back and struggling to breathe. His companion finally released him and slumped over the table, knocked out within seconds.

"Nienna weeps," Bilbo mumbled, grabbing his coat off of the table and walking out of the Great Hall of Thrór, passing Bifur and Bombur (who were collapsed in a corner, singing a drinking song in Khuzdul) as he went.

The ceremony earlier that day had gone well. Dáin had asked Bilbo to say a few lines in the dwarves' tongue at the very end, after they had set the glossy, inky crown atop the new king's flyaway tufts of red hair. It had been something along the lines of,  _"I swear my loyalty and allegiance to the king under the Mountain, and deliver to him my blade and life must he require them."_

~~Bilbo had added himself, _"This I swore to the king of before, and this I swear to the king of now."_~~

He found himself picking up more and more Khuzdul every day, as the dwarves were long past secrecy. They held him in the highest regard, and abandoned all caution when it came to their clandestine vernacular.

He was glad that they trusted him, as he viewed them as his family (they were much more amiable than all of his fussy, politically correct cousins back in the Shire).

A regal, exquisitely-dressed figure brought him out of his reverie as she approached, and he mustered the most cheerful expression he could offer.

"Queen Fjóla!" Bilbo beamed as the hall's colossal wooden doors closed behind him. "How are you enjoying the celebrations?"

"They are as lovely as you are, my dear," Fjóla replied, tossing her dark head and offering her hand to Bilbo. "You did quite a splendid job planning this. Did you run into any difficulties?"

Bilbo bowed his head and pressed his lips to the queen's worn, brown hand. "I met a dam named Da- Dalo, Dalodrae- you know what, I'm not even going to try to pronounce it - who was outraged at the prospect of there not being gifts for the invitees, in true Shire fashion. She had heard the most wonderful tales from one of the higher-ups about hobbits, and had apparently been  _dying_ to meet me for the longest time."

Fjóla gave him a coy grin and retracted her hand from his grasp. "Are you accusing the queen of spreading rumors about the most beloved hobbit in all of Middle-earth?" she asked in mock outrage.

"Of course not," Bilbo laughed. "I'm merely stating the truth."

Fjóla squinted when she smiled, drawing attention to the infinitesimal rubies set in the outermost corners of her eyes. The jewels were initially very distracting, but Bilbo had gotten used to them after a day or two of conferences with the queen.

"Are you quite sure you're all right with assuming all responsibility immediately?" she asked, a hint of concern in her voice. "It's all right to rest, you know, especially after everything you've been through."

"I'm certain, your highness."

"Mmm."

The queen bade him goodnight and entered the hall, while Bilbo traipsed through the dimly lit corridors of the Mountain, back to his quarters.

He wanted nothing more than to change out of his heavy, uncomfortable new robes. They were of a deep jade color, the silver trim embossed with the same criss-crossing pattern in the front and back. Dori had done a splendid job with them, but they were inconceivably stuffy and slightly obstructed Bilbo's ability to speak.

Dwarven fashion was exotic, to say the least - it was nothing like the endless tones of joyous greens and yellows that matched the Shire's viridescent foliage. No, dwarven accessories entailed gossamer threads of gold and pearls draped over elaborate coiffures and knots of voluminous hair. They constituted labyrinthine coils of gems woven into beards and goatees, of ornately-carved wooden beads tying off the ends of braids and plaits, and a myriad of aromas that accompanied the viscous oils keeping each strand of hair in place.

Sometimes, there was nothing more in the world that he wished to lay eyes on.

And sometimes, he hated the mere thought of himself wearing the garments of a culture he could never _truly_  be a part of.

Bilbo wandered down the vast hallways of Erebor, feeling quite utterly alone in an empty passage that was so large a dragon could lift itself up into the air and fly comfortably whilst inside. He walked down the exact middle of it, passing the fading, cobweb-covered stone walls and listing several renovations that would have to be made in his head.

Somehow, he successfully navigated the maze of a mountain and found his way back to his quarters, which were set in an alcove of what he had begun to call the _Uzbadkayal Baraj_ \- an  _entire floor_ of the Mountain set aside for all of the higher-ups and nobles of Erebor (and the king and queen, of course). Which... well, he supposed that he was one of the higher-ups now. What a strange thought: while considered to be quite rich in his homeland, he had been nowhere close to the upper class; now he had risen to the position of head advisor and coordinator of a dwarven kingdom.

Curious, indeed.

He unlocked the door to his rooms, which he had been living in for about two days, and blinked as the sudden darkness of the foyer hit him (he still hadn't gotten used to that). The torches that hung in brackets on either side of the room hissed as he lit them with the box of matches he had in his pocket, and he closed the door behind him, the room bathed in an ochre glow.

Bilbo wiped his feet on the rug and started a fire in the main room's hearth, prodding at the coals with a poker. He disrobed in the next room (his bedroom) and changed into a blue-and-white bathrobe that he had commissioned Dori to make. It wasn't anything like his old patchwork robe, of course, but it would do until he was able to return to Bag End to collect his things and bring them back to Erebor.

He returned to the hearth and pulled a great armchair up to it, warming his feet and scratching out a few notes on a scrap of parchment. Ori had made him promise to excavate the  _mukbel_ with him soon, and that was at the top of his list of things to get done.

Oh, but he was so  _tired_.

Taking on so many responsibilities at once was the only thing keeping him sane. It kept him preoccupied, kept him from thinking about what he had lost, kept him from asking himself why he was still in Erebor...

He put the list on top of a pile of similar inventories on his desk and went to bed. The sounds of the still-going after party echoed through the Mountain and carried all the way to his makeshift house, keeping him awake.

~~He wouldn't have been able to fall asleep, anyway.~~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Khuzdul Translations (in order of appearance)**  
>  _tazhiri_ \- to build  
>  _afhân_ \- grievance  
>  _khazâd_ \- dwarves  
>  _khi_ \- One  
>  _akmathankhâsh mabubnulzanât_ \- lamentation braids  
>  _uryat_ \- advisor  
>  _fanâd duzdnu targ usganul mi mê_ \- elves have a longer beard than you  
>  _Nimthurul me ra rukhs, zânami rukhs!_ \- Between you and an orc, I would kiss an orc!  
>  _Uzbadkayal Baraj_ \- Royalty Floor  
>  _mukbel_ \- library of all libraries  
>  _Fahnith Kuduszodikh_ \- List of New Lore
> 
>  ** _Fahnith Kuduszodikh_ (in order of appearance)**  
>  _akmathankhâsh mabubnulzanât_ \- braids portraying the grief of one who has lost a close friend (or, more commonly, a lover or family member)  
>  _Uzbadkayal Baraj_ \- the uppermost floor of the Lonely Mountain, containing housing for the royal family and the Ereborian upper class


	2. Tabdakhi

There had been some days when he hadn't been able to cope, when he didn't even want to wake up in the mornings lest he invoke Thorin's wrath. It had been hard to rise from his allotted chambers in Erebor, knowing that Thorin's rooms were right on the other side of the wall so that the dwarf king could hear Bilbo's every move.

That was not the case in the Erebor Bilbo was coming to love with every piece of his heart.

It was easy to rise every day, for he knew that there would be something new in store for him each morning. Whether it be creating a list of topics that needed to be addressed at the next council meeting, or a certain hall within the Mountain that required inspecting, or a new duty that Dáin needed him to oversee, Bilbo approached whatever awaited him that day with renewed vigor and excitement.

He had gotten used to living in the Mountain extraordinarily fast, considering that he, the Company, and Dáin's dwarves had only moved in a little over a year ago. There was so, so much to be done; every waking moment was spent dashing all over Erebor and attending to the seemingly never-ending needs of the kingdom. The progress they were making was slow, but so rewarding that Bilbo barely even noticed the amount of time it took.

The library still hadn't been explored, as Bilbo had promised the youngest of the Brothers Ri, but he had created a task force solely intended for opening it (several tons of stone had fallen in front of it sometime before the Battle of the Five Armies, blocking any attempted entrance). He awaited with suppressed glee the re-opening of the library, which would most likely become his "headquarters" once it was fully renovated; he, Balin, and Ori could spend  _years_  restoring the likely scorched, torn, faded books that had fallen off the shelves.

Bilbo was just happy that Smaug hadn't been able to access and destroy the grand library of Erebor, thanks to the stone from the ceiling that had collapsed and blocked the door, proving to be a bit of a problem for Bilbo's committee and creating a gaping hole in the floor above them.

His grief had become easier to deal with, but was still just as tangible as it had been a year ago. He could not bring himself to say Thorin's name out loud - he hadn't since the conclusion of the Battle of the Five Armies - but he could actually talk about him when it was necessary. Although he didn't really do that much nowadays, as he was so damn  _busy_.

It was early winter, and they had just concluded a  _very_ long meeting concerning the restoration of the guilds that had nearly taken all day, and Bilbo was supporting his head with his hand, his elbow resting on the table.  _Terrible manners, dreadful,_ the Baggins side of him chastised, and the Tookish part countered, _And dwarves couldn't care less, hmm?_

He ignored both of them, and was scribbling out a few final notes about what was to be done with the lifts of Erebor when a guard raced into the meeting chamber, his helm dangling in his hand.

"They have arrived!" he said ecstatically. "The dwarves of Ered Luin are here!"

Everyone in the room looked up, expressions of shock frozen on their faces. Bilbo anxiously pulled on the necklace he habitually wore every day, suddenly tense.

The guard glanced around at someone behind him and bowed in a frenzy, so frantic that he forgot to introduce them.

A tall figure stepped into the room, their hard boots weathered and caked with dirt. A worn traveller's cloak was fastened about their neck, the first of many layers upon layers of clothing intended to protect them from Arda's harsh windy season.

She was a dwarrowdam with a closely-trimmed, dark beard, a pale face framed with dark, wispy curls that had slipped out of her single braid, and crystalline blue eyes that had seen too much. Her lips were pressed together tightly to form a thin, pink mouth, and she carried herself with an air of regality, despite the clothes on her back that had seen better days.

Bilbo knew immediately who she was.

Her eyes met his, and he had a painful sense of déjà vu.

He stood up too quickly, his chair scraping noisily against the stone floor. His necklace slipped from his grasp as he let his hand fall to his side, and the acorn pendant bounced against his chest, in full view of everyone else in the room (normally he tucked it under his tunic collar, as it was of great importance to him and he didn't want people like Nori attempting to snatch it).

"You," she said to him, her voice ringing powerfully and breaking the dreadful silence of the room. "You are a halfling, are you not?"

Bilbo rose to his full height - which really wasn't saying much, compared to the towering dwarves that surrounded him - and let the dwarrowdam take him in, green-and-silver embroidered tunic, iron ear cuff, and all.

"You dress as if you were one of our own," she said dubiously. "Your tunic is in the fashion of my people, and you bear the sigil of my own house - of the line of Durin - upon your chest. And yet you are beardless, and walk barefoot, and have all the bearings of a foreigner. How is that?"

He paused, pondering how to answer her question.

"I was... once betrothed to your brother, the now deceased heir to the throne of Erebor," he started. "I traversed Middle-earth for six months in the company of thirteen dwarves, and fell in love with one who was lost the moment we stepped foot in this mountain. I am learning your language, your sacred tongue that is deemed unfit for others to hear - and yet every dwarf I encounter speaks it in front of me with no qualms -"

 _"Shuktel,"_ she muttered, her eyes full of tears. “You are Bilbo Baggins. You are the one my brother wrote pages upon pages about in his letters to me, few as they were. You are his One.”

Suddenly, she rushed forward, throwing her arms around him and encircling him in a bone-crushing hug, and oh, how Bilbo's heart ached.

"Welcome, Lady Dís," he smiled, "of the Halls of Belegost."

He stopped smiling almost immediately; the hug was all too familiar. The princess sensed his discomfort, and pulled away before the embrace became too intimate.

"Milady," Balin said from across the table, "we had no idea you would be arrivin' so soon. How long was yer journey, and how many did you bring with yeh?"

"We brought everyone," Dís said. "The rich and the poor, the young and the old, the weary and the hopeful. Five months was the span of our trek, and we left none behind. Some twelve hundred, I should say. All of them are waiting outside the gates of the Mountain for me to return with a message - is Erebor in good hands, or is it corrupt as in olden times?

"I should think it is in much better hands this time around," she added after a pause, smiling at Bilbo.

"Will there be enough food and water? Enough bedding? Enough  _room_?" Glóin said anxiously, voicing his thoughts.

Balin chuckled. "Have yeh any idea how large this mountain is, lad? If it's spacious enough fer a dragon, then I do believe there's plenty room for nigh on a thousand children of Mahal."

"We'll have to start assigning housing at once," Bilbo said, quickly writing down a note on some stationary and handing it to Geirur, the young, fifty year old  _tankikatîn-naiglibi_ operator that was assigned to that particular meeting room. "Send this to King Dáin, please?'

"Yes, sir."

 _Tankikatîn-naiglibi_ was his crowning achievement; he had proposed it to Dáin (who had taken to the idea at once) much earlier in the year, and it had been received splendidly by the inhabitants of the Mountain. Bilbo had received several pats on the back and congratulatory words since establishing it. It was a complex system of wires that ran through the floors and walls of Erebor (oh, he had had  _so_ much trouble getting all of it installed, it'd been a nightmare) that were connected to several alcoves in the wall that were situated on each floor. Placed inside the niches were wooden stands that displayed a strange yet simplistic machine comprised of two bars of metal, one fixed in place and the other hinged above it, able to be tapped against the one beneath. A certain sequence of taps represented a word or short phrase in Khuzdul, the patterns of which could be looked up in an alphabetized glossary available at each station. Each niche was connected to a particular floor, where the message would be received by an attendant and then delivered to the intended recipient.

Balin had helped Bilbo compile the book over the course of a few months, and Bifur's Iglishmêk signing - which Bilbo was learning extraordinarily quickly - had inspired the tapping part. And the entire mechanical aspect of it... well, that had been inspired by a certain descendant of Durin's frequent tirades about the resplendent, magnificent contraptions and inventions that dominated the Mountain. He had gone on and on about the  _ventilation shafts_ , of all things, and the boiler system, and how they were able to heat the entire kingdom sufficiently throughout the winter...

"Was anyone harmed or... _lost_ during your journey?" Balin asked, drawing Bilbo back to his surroundings. "We'll fully compensate their families and arrange for a traditional funeral if necessary."

"Nay," Dís replied after a pause, looking troubled. "But one member of our party is with us no longer - she continued on to the Iron Hills, where she was born and raised."

"Of whom do you speak?"

The princess smiled, a tad mischievously. "Her name is Thráia. She is the eldest dam of our party; in fact, she lived here in Erebor for most of her life. She was once respected and revered, but now she is considered to be a bit of a madwoman."

"Is she alone?" Bilbo said, concerned. "Is she safe?"

The Lady Dís' grin grew even wider. "She is far from danger, Master Bilbo. Thráia daughter of Fróia, widow of the great King Thrór, can more than fend for herself."

 

* * *

 

"Read the notes back to me, would ya?"

"Hmm" - Bilbo cleared his throat as he shuffled through the stack of parchment in his arms to pull a small book out of the unorganized pile - "er, let's see... 'Estimate of arrived population: around twelve hundred, estimate of current Ereborian population...' oh, something like one thousand, I believe, since we've had everyone evacuated from the Iron Hills. 'Combined population: about twenty-two hundred,' which is quite,  _quite_ good."

"Indeed," Dáin mused from his seat as Bilbo, who was standing, set a packet labeled "GUILD REQUESTS - PERUSE EXTENSIVELY" down on the table between them.

"Father, must I  _really_ be present for these meetings?" the king's son, Thorin III, groaned haughtily. Bilbo raised his eyebrows at Dáin, who shushed the young prince.

"This is part of your training, as I might remind yeh, Thorin," the sovereign chastised, "and you are not yet an adult. You are seventy-five, and it is important that you are aware of the goings-on of this kingdom. It will be yours someday."

"Ah, yes," Bilbo continued after the prince glowered for a moment, "and one more thing - the Lady Dís' grandmother, who is somehow _still alive_ , has gone on to the Iron Hills. Alone."

Dáin swore heavily in Khuzdul, rubbed his forehead with one hand, and pointed at his son with the other. "You are  _never_ to repeat those words in front of yer mother, understand?"

"Yes,  _'adad_ ," the young dwarrow said as Bilbo chuckled.

"The council has discussed the possibility of a, quote-on-quote, 'rescue mission,'" Bilbo continued, "but with the sudden increased population count, we're going to need all hands on deck to assign housing, negotiate with Bard and Thranduil to see if they'll provide more resources, etcetera, etcetera. Which is why we have come to the conclusion that I am to depart at once to the Iron Hills in order to locate and retrieve the ex-queen." He closed the ledger in his hand with a satisfying _snap_  and set it back down on the table.

"Hang on, Bilbo -"

"Now, the meeting with Representative Tauriel is" - Bilbo set a schedule (that was positively  _bombarded_ with ink and crossed-out words and hastily-added footnotes) down - " _today_ , actually, and if everything goes well -"

"Bilbo -"

"- I'll be able to pack tonight and leave tomorrow, and it'll all work out just -"

"Bilbo!"

He stopped short.

"I cannae allow you to go to the Iron Hills by yourself," Dáin said carefully.

"Nonsense. I fought in the Battle of the Five Armies, I can take care of myself. If it'll make you feel any better, I'll get one of the Company to come with me, they're all brave war-"

"I will not have one of my most trusted advisors wind up  _dead_ because he's been attacked by orcs!" Dáin paused for a moment, then continued in a softer tone. "Aren't yeh tired, Bilbo? You work on and on and  _on_ for weeks on end - forgettin' to even eat most of the time, might I add - and yeh ask for nothin' in return but a measly salary. I tried to give yeh a raise, but you refused. Isn't there somethin' yeh really,  _really_ want, more than anythin'? I'm serious. Ask me for anythin', right now, and I'll give it to yeh."

Several impossible things ran through Bilbo's mind all at once -  _I want_ _Thorin back; sleep; peace and quiet; a garden - a nice, simple garden where I could tend to my plants and never be disturbed again_ \- but he found that he could only reasonably ask for one thing.

"Let me go to the Iron Hills," he said, grinning wickedly.

Dáin groaned and covered his face with his hands.

Bilbo left the private meeting chamber with a wide smile on his face and (unbeknownst to him) a red-headed prince close behind. Thorin III called out to him as he was about to turn the corner, and he looked over his shoulder at the dwarrow, nearly dropping the heap of parchment in his arms as he did.

"You really should get a bag of some sort," the youngling suggested, picking up a loose scrap of paper off of the floor and placing it on top of the stack.

"That's quite a good suggestion, Th- your highness," he replied, smiling his thanks.

The child frowned. "Why won't you call me by my name, Master Bilbo?" he asked, and Bilbo winced.

"It's a  _very_ long story that I'm sure your father would very much enjoy telling you, lad. Why, he knows all of it by heart!"

"I'd rather hear it from you, sir," Thorin said with eager eyes. " _'Amad_ always says you're the best storyteller in all of Erebor."

"Does she," Bilbo said monotonously. "Another time, your highness, I promise."

"All right," came the glum reply, and the little prince turned on his heel and marched away.

There was really nothing about him that reminded Bilbo of his own Thorin - he was very short and fierce and scrappy, like a wyvern, and he somehow possessed both his father's infamous red mane and his mother's dark skin, albeit lightened to a tan, tawny tone compared to her sepia hue. There was very little of his namesake in him besides the famous Durin nose and brow and lineage. Nonetheless, something about him always made Bilbo feel a little apprehensive, as if he were somehow tarnishing the memory of Thorin II by speaking to the third of his kind.

 _Well, perhaps that's how my Thorin felt all his life, being named after one of his ancestors,_  Bilbo thought, and wa justs about to continue on his own way when a cry rang out in the busy hallway: "Master Baggins!"

"Not  _now_ ," he muttered, "I've got a meeting..."

Glóin was approaching, accompanied by two dwarves - presumably his wife and child. "I'd like yeh to meet my family," he said proudly, his chest puffing out. "This is me wife, Geisli, and me wee lad, Gimli."

"Da! I'm not  _that_ wee."

"I am  _utterly_ surrounded by gingers," Bilbo mumbled under his breath, "and I am about to be late..."

"Aye, son, but yeh're still a boy by my reckonin'," Glóin chuckled. "Geisli, Gimli, this is the chief advisor of King Dáin's court, Master Bilbo Baggins. Bilbo, my daughter, Gytla, and my youngest son, Glúmur, are grabbin' food fer us at the moment; I'm sure you'll meet 'em later."

Bilbo smiled warmly at the red-headed family. Glóin had not been joking about his wife's beauty: she was quite stunning, even in the dirty blue travelling garb she was wearing. Her curly red hair had been meticulously braided into a beautiful design that cascaded down her back, reminiscent of a mesh net. Her beard was cropped short and close to her face, most likely because she had no time to care for it, what with her three children. Her face was pale and devoid of the  _ibriz-yûd_ her son Gimli sported like splotches of ink across his nose and cheeks.

"What kind of dwarf are you?" Gimli asked, curiosity sparkling in his brown eyes.  _"Nûlukhkhuzd?"_

"Gimli!" his mother gasped, her hands flying to her mouth in horror. "Do not speak of such things,  _lalkhith_! Master hobbit, I am -"

Bilbo chuckled and replied, "It's nothing, my lady. I'm no dwarrow - I'm but a hobbit, originating from the Shire. You may have passed through it on your way here."

"Aye, we did," Gimli said, his brow furrowed in confusion. "A very green place, I remember, but you seem nothing like the  _zantulbasân_ we -"

"Master hobbit, _na vedui_ ," called a musical, fluid voice from behind them, and Bilbo turned to see a tall, dark-skinned Silvan elf standing a few feet away.

"Haeredhir?" Bilbo said concernedly. "Where's Tauriel?"

"I am taking her place today as representative; I shall explain her whereabouts later," the elf said, his face devoid of emotion. "If you are done socializing with this... pack of dwarves, I'd like to get this over with."

The boy, Gimli, glowered. "A pack of dwarves!" he exclaimed. "We just arrived from a five month journey to return to our homeland, and you dare call us a  _pack_! We are a congregation greater than your eyes will ever see - !"

 _"Nudn,"_  Geisli warned, her tone hazardous.

Gimli glared up at the elf with a scowl that could rival Thorin Oakenshield's. Bilbo was impressed.

"I will not embarrass you, dwarf, by describing to you the armies of my own people that far outnumber your measly -"

"You are arguing with a child, _Representative_  Haeredhir," Bilbo hissed through gritted teeth. "Glóin, it was very nice to meet your family - hoping to meet the rest some other time - pop on over for tea, perhaps on Wednesday - must catch up!

"What are you staring at?" he muttered to Haeredhir as they paced down the hallway to a stairwell entrance, where the elf courteously held the door for him. "Ah, wait a moment - ma'am?"

A dwarrowdam wearing the transportation standard - red garments with black trim and belt - turned to him. "Yes, sire?"

He wrinkled his nose at that and shook his head. "None of that, now - Bilbo is fine. Send this up to the  _Uzbadkayal Baraj_ in the dumbwaiter, will you? Residency 224, thanks very much." He placed the pile of notes and other such inventory in her arms, and she smiled.

"My pleasure, sire."

"No - uh, well..."

She was already gone, the stack of paper teetering in her arms as she navigated through the crowd.

"You speak their language?" Haeredhir asked, looking slightly disturbed.

"Oh, drop it already." Bilbo sighed, then after a pause, continued with, "Yes, I do. Somewhat."

"Why do you consort with these dwarves, master hobbit?" the elf asked as they descended the patchwork stone staircase (some of the blocks had required replacing, as they had been considerably weathered away by the several thousand feet that had climbed up and down them over the years).

"Hmm. An interesting question indeed, representative." He let his hand slide down the wooden railing as they stepped down and down and down, and then he finally answered the elf. "I suppose it's because... they came to me out of the blue. They took me completely by surprise - dwarves are prone to that, you know. I... well, it was frankly a bit boring back where I come from. My parents passed across Belegaer a long time ago, you see, and there really wasn't anything keeping me at home. No immediate family, no friends of great importance that I couldn't live without... I don't really know. Every day on the journey was a new adventure, whereas in my old home, it was all the same."

"But your journey is over now, is it not?" Haeredhir inquired. "You've completed what they deemed their 'quest,' and this kingdom is reclaimed. What still keeps you here?"

Bilbo sighed and pushed open the door at the end of the stairs. "Let's not venture into that, Haeredhir. We've got a meeting to start, after all."

Haeredhir nodded slowly and cleared his throat. "Well, King Thranduil speaks of nothing but the white gems that still reside within the Lonely Mountain. He will not renew the treaty until they are returned. And he will not, under any circumstances, come to retrieve them - he wants them brought to Mirkwood by way of envoy."

Bilbo uttered the harshest curse he knew - which was pretty vulgar, considering; he hadn't spent nearly two years living amongst dwarves for nothing - and the elf blinked, somewhat surprised. "I forgot about those blasted jewels - Mahal above! I'll have to find them myself, they've been long since lost in the treasure hoard."

"If Dáin wants the treaty reaffirmed, he will -"

" _King_  Dáin will do whatever is necessary to maintain peace between our kingdoms, and I won't hear you say otherwise," Bilbo snapped, then flapped his hand at Haeredhir when he opened his mouth to reply. "Don't, _don't_! They'll be brought to your realm by the next moon, I shall see to it personally." He exhaled heavily, nodding to the guards standing at the great entrance of Erebor. One of them nodded back, and the gargantuan doors were opened to reveal the blinding sunlight - even in winter, it was extraordinarily bright out as the sun reflected off of the glossy, frosted snow banks lining the path.

"Thank you," Bilbo said graciously to the doorkeepers as he passed, the elf in tow.

"Master burglar," one of them said gruffly, holding out a small, gray, hobbit-sized coat for him to wear.

"Ah, Jóni! You shouldn't have," Bilbo grinned, taking the coat from his arms and slipping it on. "Oh, it fits perfectly! Wherever did you get it?"

"Imla made it," Jóni grunted. "Got the measurements from Master Dori."

"That's lovely Jóni! Thanks very, very much, it's such a pretty coat. I'll have to make a plate of scones for you in return, of course, I know how much Imla loves them. Tell your daughter hullo for me, as well, won't you?"

"'Course," he replied.

Bilbo somehow smiled even wider as he and Haeredhir stepped outside.

"They all seem quite taken with you," the elf remarked, brushing the lightly falling snow from his shoulders and sweeping his green cloak about himself.

"I should hope so, I'm practically running the kingdom for them," Bilbo chuckled. "Be on your way, Haeredhir. Tell your king his gems will come, and that he should prepare for an inquiry - I want to know exactly what happened to Representative Tauriel! But do remind him that those stones of starlight are not exactly at the forefront of my mind."

Haeredhir narrowed his eyes, his dark irises conveying his suspicion. "And what, may I ask, is keeping this item of utmost importance from the top of your to-do list, master hobbit?"

Bilbo bit the inside of his cheek for a moment, then said, "Well, for starters, I've got a queen to retrieve."

 

* * *

 

He set off the next day (bedecked in his new, painstakingly-stitched coat), after reassuring Dáin multiple times that yes, he had his sword; yes, he had his shirt of _mithril_ ; and yes, he and Bifur (who had approached him excitedly that evening and asked, switching between Westron and Khuzdul as fast as lightning, if he could join him) would travel only during the daytime so as to avoid orcs. The journey to the Iron Hills would take about a week and a half, and it would be slow going, since they could only walk between dawn and dusk.

The Lady Dís had visited his rooms the night before he left, a weary smile on her face and the same pattern of braids in her hair as Bilbo's.

~~It had been a year, and the _akmathankhâsh mabubnulzanât_ still remained.~~

"You are kind and brave, Master Baggins," she informed him as she sipped her nearly empty cup of tea and watched from the armchair as he laid his clothes out on his bed. "But you do not have to make this journey alone."

He placed the tiny pouch of silver beads Nori had given him as a birthday present on the bedside table and turned to Dís, taking her cup and saucer, setting them down on a stack of books, and taking her hands in his. "I've been walking my own lonely path for a while now, dear. You and I both have."

"I know, but that doesn't mean you have to go to the Iron Hills by yourself. It's a rather long journey," she said.

"Nothing I haven't made before," said Bilbo, a hint of a smile on his face. "Besides, Bifur is coming with me, and he is a rather formidable warrior. I'll be alright, Dís, I promise."

"Bilbo, I worry for you. Take Dwalin with you, or one of the guards.  _Please_ , I beg of you. I will not have the last remnant of my brother gone because of foolish delusions of grandeur."

He snorted - once upon a time, he would have covered his mouth with horror, but he had learned not to care in front of dwarves - and squeezed Dís' hands tightly. "I appreciate your concern, of course, but I can hardly remove the captain of the guard from his post without there being a severe uprising inspired by Nori," he replied. There was a brief moment of silence as he studied the features of the dwarrowdam's face, contorted with worry, and then he let out a soft sigh. "I've no idea where I'll find Thráia, if at all. Have you ever been to the Iron Hills?"

"Aye, when I was but eleven. Thorin was twenty-five, Frer was... let's see, he must've been twenty-ish," she said, smiling wistfully as she recounted the tale. "That was the only time we ever went to visit our cousins in the Hills - most of the time, Dáin's father Náin would bring his own children to visit Erebor. It was very nice; I rather enjoyed the visit. The little cousins showed us all over the vale, they were so excited. The shops were our favorite, of course. All Thorin wanted to do was go down and look at the toys; he positively  _demanded_ that they be brought to the Mountain to be sold for the other children, but our grandfather refused, of course.

"My grandmother will have most likely gone to the place of her birth, and of her childhood. She was noticed at a very young age for her sharp tongue and her political aptness, and she lived in the lord's castle for a long time as an  _uryat_ , just like you. Look for the smallest house on the crest of the tallest hill, and she will be inside, I hope."

"Thank you, Dís."

"You're most welcome."

They bade each other farewell that night, and thus, he and Bifur had set out quite early the next morning, having already packed and said their goodbyes. The way to the Iron Hills was long, but Bilbo was willing to make the journey if it meant he would return with the once-queen of Erebor.

They arrived a little over ten days later, climbing up the crest of a grassy knoll to look down at the abandoned village.

It was nothing like Dale, the ruined city of men that resided between a bend of the River Running below Erebor. No, the buildings of the Iron Hills were still intact, standing straight and tall against the azure sky. The chimneys emitted no smoke, but for one, atop the highest hill and attached to a shack that looked as if a mere breath of air could send it crumbling down.

Bilbo led Bifur towards it at once, winding between the eerily silent houses and resting his hand over the golden ring in his pocket.

"Wait here," he said to Bifur at the bottom of the hill.

_ "Binudmê?" _

"Mmm."

"All right," Bifur said, switching to Westron with ease. "I will be patient."

Bilbo smiled at that - he was glad that Bifur had finally regained the ability to understand and speak Westron. The removal of the axehead from his left temple had led to the undoing of the damage to his cognitive abilities, and he now often jumped between Westron and Khuzdul in conversation. Bilbo was grateful for his still-increasing exposure to the language; it helped him deal with arguing dignitaries rather conveniently during council meetings.

He ascended the old stone steps that went up the hill and knocked on the door three times, wincing at the immediate familiarity of the sound.

The oldest dwarrowdam he'd ever encountered swung the door open and looked at him, her bright blue eyes - the color of which had been passed down to two of her grandchildren - sparkling. Her long gray hair was tangled, two messily-braided, slightly lopsided  _uzbadkayyal_  resting against her shoulders. The rest of her hair fell unbound down her back, long, straight, and shining. She was wearing layers upon layers of clothes, all of them torn and faded into different tones of gray.

As soon as her eyes fell upon Bilbo, her face lit up in a glorious, awestruck smile, and she cried, "Frerin!"

Nothing in Arda could have prepared him for that reaction.

Bilbo had seen tapestries and portraits of the youngest son of Thráin hung throughout the Lonely Mountain, and he did not see the resemblance - except, of course, in size. Frerin had, after all, been only forty-eight when he died in the Battle of Azanulbizar; he had been a  _child_. Thorin had been, too: a mere fifty-three years of age, Balin had said.

It had been a war fought by youths, and so, so many had died.

From what Bilbo could gather from Dís' vague, nostalgic descriptions, Frerin had been a mischievous young lad with a love of pranks and trickery. He had had a very short beard for most of his life - cut even shorter in remembrance of those whose beards had been singed or burned off completely during the Sack of Erebor - long light brown strands of hair, and virescent green eyes that were reminiscent of jade (a circular pendant of which he wore about his neck; "a present from our grandfather," Dís had explained). Frerin had been around the same height as Bilbo towards the end of his life, according to the remaining dwarrow of full Durin blood - but that was the only similarity between them.

The only explanation he could come up with for Thráia's confusion was... well, it was rude to even think it.

She welcomed him inside immediately, giving him a warm hug, squeezing his cheeks, and generally reminding him of his Grandmother Adamanta, wife of the Old Took.

"My lady," he said once she had let go of his face, then came to a sudden halt when she interrupted him.

"Nonsense, nonsense! I am your  _sigin'amad_ , and you will call me as such."

"I... er, I'm not Frerin. My name is Bilbo Baggins, and I am a hobbit of the Shire who now resides in Erebor."

"Erebor!" the old dam said, sighing longingly. "Erebor used to be my home, but this place" - she gestured around her with her wrinkled, veiny hands - "has always been my  _first_ home. I shall stay here until I die, I think; which, mind you, Frerin, will be quite soon. I can feel it in my bones - the Maker will come for me very, very soon, indeed, and he will take my hand, and he will bring me to his great halls where I will see my husband, and my son and his wife, and my grandson, and my parents..."

She trailed off, and Bilbo stared at her with wonder and bewilderment.

"Queen Thráia, I am not... your grandson," he said cautiously.

"Well, of course I know that!" she snapped, turning to the fireplace, grabbing a poker, and jabbing at the coals with it. "Thorin's dead. I knew he was doomed from the moment he left - that quest was made for dead men walking, and he knew it. He was willing to sacrifice his own life to reclaim the Mountain - and he hadn't even found his One! The idiot was a hundred and ninety-five when he went, and he still hadn't come across his One. He was too focused on leading a forgotten people. Fifty-three when he took the supposed 'throne' - so,  _so_ young. I had dreams for him: dreams of him settling down with a nice young dwarrow of noble blood and handing the crown over to his nephew or something. Leadership took him from me, took one of the only pieces of my husband and son left..."

Bilbo smiled sadly. "He did find his One, though, my lady."

Thráia laughed. "He most certainly did not, Frerin!" she chortled. "I've been alive for three hundred and one years, and I've been there for all of his life, and I don't think he's ever even had a  _crush_! For his entire life, Thorin was obsessed with taking care of the people of Erebor. He never had the  _time_ to fall in love, the poor dear. My grandson, my dearest Thorin, oh! I weep for him -"

" _I_  am his One."

"What?" She turned away from the fire to look at him. "Frerin, are you -"

"My name," he said firmly, "is Bilbo Baggins. I am not a dwarf, but a hobbit of the Shire who now serves as advisor to King Dáin. I have been sent to take you back to the Lonely Mountain with me, which has finally been reclaimed by Thorin, your oldest grandson, to whom I was once betrothed."

The dwarrowdam stood there in shock, staring at him with a curious look on her face. "So you are not my grandson, then?"

Bilbo shook his head. "No."

She tilted her head slightly and said, "You are the exact same height as he, and yet you say it is not so. These are strange times."

"Indeed," he agreed. They stood in silence for a while, looking at each other, before he blurted, "Would you like me to make you some tea, Queen Thráia?"

Thráia sunk to her knees by the fire and wrapped the shawl dangling from the crooks of her elbows tight about her shoulders. "Yes, please."

"Do you have a kettle?"

"In the cupboard," she instructed him, "to the right of the kiln. It is iron. My father made it himself."

"Tell me about him," Bilbo said conversationally as he stood on his toes to open the cabinet and reach into it.

"His use-name was Throrskjald," came the response. "He was a blacksmith, and he died when I was young in a raid by orcs. I believe he fought valiantly, but I don't remember very well. I was in my twenties at the time."

"I'm sorry."

"Yes, so am I." Thráia sighed. "My mother, Fróia, was a jeweller who only wanted the best for me. It was she who secured the job for me at the castle here, and I rose through the ranks until they placed me as advisor in the court. Thrór came to visit on a diplomatic mission to meet with his brother Grór, the ruler of the Iron Hills at the time, and he met me, and, well... I don't suppose it was love at first sight. Do you believe in that sort of thing, Frerin?"

"It's Bilbo," he corrected gently, "and no, I don't." He grinned, reminiscing back to his first meeting with Thorin. "My One antagonized me from the moment we met, and I suppose he never really stopped."

"Right, yes, Bilbo. Anyway, he took me as his  _shahnûna_ , and... well, that was that."

"He took you as his queen?"

There was a pause. "Yes. I was a queen once. Yes."

The kettle whistled after a few minutes of comfortable silence, and he poured the hot water into two cups containing some bilberry leaves he had brought with him. Once the tea had steeped, he brought it over to Thráia, placing some in front of the once-queen before the hearth and sitting next to her, his own mug in hand.

"What are you here for, Frer- Bilbo?" she asked quietly, her tone childlike and innocent.

"I told you, my lady," he said between sips. "To bring you home."

"I  _am_ home."

 

* * *

 

Bilbo woke in the dead of night to the sound of incoherent mumbling, and he rose from where he had fallen asleep on the floor in front of the fireplace. Thráia was lying on the only bed in the house, tossing and turning on the mattress stuffed with straw, the small, quilted blanket from her childhood thrown upon the floor.

"Frerin," she called out weakly, her hand outstretched.

He started to correct her, but thought better of it, suddenly realizing that she was on her last legs. "I'm here,  _sigin'amad_."

"Will you be there, Frerin? Waiting for me in the halls of our Maker?"

"Yes," Bilbo said simply, choking back a sob - he hadn't expected this visit to be so damn emotionally taxing.

"Will your brother be there?" she said wonderingly. "Will my son of all sons be waiting for me with his wife, and my husband, and my parents, long since gone..."

"All of us are waiting for you,  _sigin'amad_."

"I can see them, Frerin."

"I know," Bilbo said brokenly, clutching her hand tighter in his (he couldn't remember even grabbing it in the first place). There was a horrible lump in his throat, and he was sobbing for the first time in months, letting the emotions escape him like monumental floodgates being opened.

"Ah, the arms of death," she sighed. "How welcome they seem after such a life as I have lived."

"You lived well, Grandmother."

There was a long pause, and then: "I know you aren't Frerin."

"I-I know that. Your mind is sharper than you care to let on."

Thráia daughter of Fróia gave a wheezing laugh, and then she said in the ghost of a whisper, "Farewell, dearest Bilbo. I go to join those who should never have left."

She exhaled shortly, and just like that, the light was gone from her eyes. Bilbo wept pathetically - not just for the death of this wonderful, grand woman who had risen from peasantry to queenship, but for the deaths of all those he had loved and lost far too quickly.

 

* * *

 

"You were quitea long time," Bifur said in the morning when Bilbo emerged from the house early in the morning, his eyes red from crying.

"I'm sorry," Bilbo said wearily. "We failed. Queen Thráia has passed on into the hands of the Maker."

"We didn't fail, Master Baggins. The goal was to find the queen, yes? You weren't to know she was on her deathbed."

"Mmm," came his nonverbal, fatigued response, as he turned back to face the house on the lone, grassy knoll. "Well, I suppose we ought to bury her soon."

"You didn't fail."

" _Really_ , Bifur? Because it sure feels that way."

 _"Kun,"_ the dwarf said, and despite the straightforwardness of the reply, it contained unspoken paragraphs of consolation and sympathy. Bifur was always doing things like that - saying things with a look instead of out loud, or concealing the way he really felt in the pauses between his words. It was his own sort of language: one that Bilbo had steadily picked up on once he'd taken the time to truly get to know him.

They stood there silently, watching the clouds float by, obstructed by the frame of the house.

"You know, it's against tradition to bury a dwarf in the ground," Bifur quipped matter-of-factly, as if this were something that came up in everyday conversation.

"Well," Bilbo said, smiling grimly, "I think she'd love it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Khuzdul Translations (in order of appearance)**  
>  _tazhiri_ \- to build  
>  _tabdakhi_ \- to meet  
>  _shuktel_ \- kin of all kin  
>  _tankikatîn-naiglibi_ \- Ereborian equivalent of a telegraph (lit. to glimpse-speak with each other/to communicate with each other briefly and quickly)  
>  _'adad_ \- father  
>  _'amad_ \- mother  
>  _ibriz-yûd_ \- freckles (lit. sun-spots)  
>  _Nûlukhkhuzd?_ \- Petty-dwarf?  
>  _lalkhith_ \- young fool  
>  _zantulbasân_ \- hobbits  
>  _nudn_ \- boy  
>  _Uzbadkayal Baraj_ \- Royalty Floor  
>  _akmathankhâsh mabubnulzanât_ \- lamentation braids  
>  _uryat_ \- advisor  
>  _atdun yadi_ \- wait here  
>  _Binudmê?_ \- Without you? (lit. Without (a) comrade?)  
>  _uzbadkayyal_ \- royalties  
>  _sigin'amad_ \- grandmother  
>  _shahnûna_ \- bride (lit. marriage-lady)  
>  _kun_ \- yes  
>  _Fahnith Kudoszodikh_ \- List of New Lore
> 
>  **Sindarin Translations (in order of appearance)**  
>  _na vedui_ \- at last  
>  _mithril_ \- silver-steel
> 
>  ** _Fahnith Kuduszodikh_ (in order of appearance)**  
>  _tankikatîn-naiglibi_ \- a telegram-like communication system used for quick and easy correspondence throughout Erebor  
>  _Uzbadkayal Baraj_ \- the uppermost floor of the Lonely Mountain, containing housing for the royal family and the Ereborian upper class  
>  _akmathankhâsh mabubnulzanât_ \- braids portraying the grief of one who has lost a close friend (or, more commonly, a lover or family member)  
>  _uzbadkayyal_ \- the royal family’s traditional two braids on either side of the face that are worn on both male and female descendants/living members of the immediate royal family


End file.
